CLASS INSPIRED BY BILLY ROCHE
STUDENT WORKS IMPRESS AT BRIDGETOWN COLLEGE
BILLY ROCHE is sharing his passion for writing with students at Bridgetown College, who enjoy the privilege of participating in a Writer in Residence programme conducted by the successful playwright.
The course for fifth year students has been run by the college for the past eight years and author, musician and actor Billy, who penned The Wexford Trilogy, Tumbling Down, and Tales from Rainwater Pond has been involved since the beginning.
The playwright and screenwriter said he never fails to be impressed by the standard of the work produced by the students in short story, poetry and prose.
The creative initiative is partly funded by Poetry Ireland and South East Arts and is strongly encouraged and supported by the school principal Fionnuala Greene, who is delighted with the annual results.
Billy’s contribution to the success of the programme is invaluable, according to English teacher Siobhán Cronin, who co-ordinated this year’s course with fellow teacher Jenny Roche.
‘He always manages to get the best creatively from our English students and we really appreciate that.
‘It goes without saying that his expertise as an established writer lends an extra special dimension to the residency. He is truly inspiring’ said Siobhán.
‘We, the teachers are continually astounded and delighted by the calibre of the students’ work. Every year, the bar gets higher and higher’.
The winners of this year’s programme were announced at a prize-giving ceremony in the college, with Juliana Costa winning the overall short story award for her story ‘Painted Irony’ and Imogen Fannin in runner-up position with ‘Mnemophobia’.
The winner of the poetry category was Annie O’Brien with ‘Defined’ and Sophie Roche came in second place with her poem ‘Realisation’.
‘We can’t wait for Billy to return next year to inspire a new batch of young, talented and emerging writers,’ said Ms Cronin.
This year’s winning works by Annie O’Brien and Juliana Costa are reproduced here. THE BITTERSWEET latte tingled upon her tongue with an ephemeral burn. She approached a particularly interesting canvas, layered with heavy strokes and unclear lines.
The image itself was of a distorted portrait, a blurred gentleman with a neat beard, yellowed teeth pigmented with a shade obscurer than beige. Perhaps untraceable by the human eye and only seen through a sharp, imaginary vision. Fingers curled around a tall, crystal glass, a swishing drink within, droplets mid-air akin to a sudden stop in time.
The artist was one who based his art on hedonism, capturing the axiomatically nugatory nature of a man who has everything he desires. Perhaps it had been the knowing look of the soul trapped within the painting’s eyes that transferred all of it into her own consciousness, or simply the confident stance of the grinning fool.
The gallery was small, the walls covered with art never before seen, not any bigger than an extended bedroom. Sharing that same intimacy, albeit with the glassed front that allowed others to peer in.
With a two-sided seat in the centre and a small table in the far corner, where the owner scribbled notes, or maybe not words but a fine picture of his own. She had never been that close to find out.
Returning on the same day of every week, she spent a stretched half-hour and allowed herself to place her body in a painting of her choice. Sipping a hot beverage with a scarf wrapped around her neck, every once in a while stealing glimpses of the man whose hands were busy with a pencil and a notebook.
What made her come back every time was the warm smile he shot her whenever she left; a kind glance reciprocated by a mumbled farewell escaping curled lips and rosy cheeks.
The near-silent buzz of her phone startled her, and when the comforting sound of pencil to paper ceased she looked at him with an apologetic expression, only to find him already scribbling away once again.
Her eyes skimmed over the short words of the message and a frown pulled down her lips. She forced herself to leave, glancing back just to see him look up with the same courteous beam replicated in the prior weeks.
Briskly walking back to her apartment, she found him already there, standing in the middle of her living room with a single rose in hand. She smiled but in spite of her appearance was pained to see him look at her so lovingly. Carefully, she chose her words: ‘Did I forget an important date?’ HE CHUCKLED and shook his head, unaware of her masked uneasiness and slight discomfort.
He stepped forward, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. She couldn’t stop herself from inching away, the motion laced with concealed rue. If he had noticed, he hadn’t shown it.
‘I’ve brought you something,’ he said, and with that he neared the rose closer to her face, the petals tickling her own skin. She took it, noticing how the thorns had been removed.
His consideration made her heart clench in guilt. ‘I also need to tell you something...’ HER VISAGE mirrored one of a worried curiosity, afraid of what he’d say next, but mostly of her proceeding reaction. He brought a hand to his cropped hair, scratching the back of his head as his eyes became fearful. A confession and a secret were told, and she wished he had spoken sooner. She would’ve been ecstatic a month prior, but now she had to fight the urge to cover her ears and stop listening. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her jaw acted faster than her thoughts, and dishonour washed over her with an unforgiving chill, ‘I can’t stay or be with you any more… I’m so sorry.’
His mouth parted but he choked on his words, snapping it shut and pressing his lips into a thin line. His gaze was accusatory, quite like one of a wounded toddler looking for something to blame.
When he left, she stood holding the singular red rose he offered along with
a piece of his own self. She felt relieved, but guilty all the same.
With a sudden sense of freedom she placed the flower on the coffee table and retraced his steps. Her stumbles down the street were caused by an impulsiveness she simply couldn’t control. She hadn’t been thinking when she found herself opposite the dimly lit gallery, eyes falling on the man standing opposite his desk, broad back to her. SHE HEARD her own heels clicking against the wooden floors of her second-home. He turned around with a confused look etched on his face, brows furrowed and eyes questioning. The grin he directed at her had an instantaneous effect on her, one that she pointedly hid under the calm look on her face. Her lips parted, yet before any sound came out, another’s voice echoed throughout the room.
‘Sweetheart, I apologise for being late.’
Her voice was breezy, akin to a windy summer afternoon, flying past her lips with a delicate eloquence – an exquisite type of vernacular truly – only heard once in a lifetime. She held herself with a fatal beauty only a narrator could attempt to describe with a couple hundred words, a mere inch of her skin covered with a whole body yet to be seen. His eyes dragged over her like thick strings of caramel, in a way the intruder envied and wished to be looked at. ‘It’s fine, love.’ His voice was sweeter than honey, and deep, deeper than an ocean. ‘Is there something wrong?’ He directed his question at her, not at his lover, his soul-mate, but her: she who came to hand over her heart and was to leave with a bruised version of it, the cruel irony of it leaving a sour taste in her mouth. ‘I... thought I left my gloves here.’ The lie was effortless, and he scratched his chin, glancing behind his desk. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he apologised. She mumbled a ‘ thank you’ and left, shooting the woman a smile that she reciprocated with a sceptical look and hesitant beam of her own. She looked back, only this time his eyes weren’t on her. She had been right in assuming it was a beautiful picture he drew.